


A Good Pull

by Hyliare



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Companionable Snark, F/F, Jarene, M/M, background Johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 19:39:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1953657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyliare/pseuds/Hyliare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Jarene coffee shop AU written for Guixonlove in the 2014 AU Exchangelock. Took me a bit longer than I wanted, but here it is!</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Good Pull

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



“John, you’ve got to clean the injector again.”

A dusty blond head popped up from where it’d been working under the sink, scowl in place. “I just cleaned it.”

“Well, it’s clogged again.”

“Why? How do you know?”

Janine stared him down, wide-eyed, until the early-morning scowl had faded to a slightly more respectful frown. “It’s pulling too slowly, and _yes_ , I checked the grind, and the filter. Could you take a look, Dr Grump?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Then stop being grumpy. Should I grab one from the back in case you’ve got to replace it?”

John rubbed a hand over his face and slowly shook his head, then nodded as he stood and began to wash the grease off his fingers. “Might as well. I’d rather deal with that than with it clogging all damned day. But you’re signing the papers.”

“ _Honestly_. They’re not even expensive! Signing _papers_.”

“Just get it and sign them, _please?_ I’ve still got some poking around to do down there.”

“Oy! Who’s the manager today?”

“Fuck off.”

Janine flashed a grin. “Just for you, I will. I’ll get the part. Clean the injector, or replace it, I don’t care. Just make it work…? Thanks, doc.”

“Don’t call me—”

“ _Thanks, doc!_ ”

The main-assistant-manager disappeared into the back room, checking on a few things while en route to the spare parts for the espresso machine, and returned in good time to give all the tables a final wipe, load the pastry cabinet, and turn the sign on the door from _closed_ to _open_ just as John was re-washing his hands and testing the machine.

“Good?” Her voice was higher than normal, and a bit pointed (as were her eyebrows). John didn’t answer verbally, but he _did_ pull a very-nearly-perfect shot of espresso and tilt the demitasse towards her. She sighed. “ _Good_. Now don’t touch it for the rest of the day. You’re terrible at that.”

“Well, you’re a terrible boss.”

“Thank you.”

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

“Do you think it’s really worth anything?” Janine stood polishing the glass on the customers’ side of the pastry cabinet. All the grubby lunch-rush fingers did a number on it, every day. John was washing the blenders. She glanced up at him and asked again, “Do you?”

“What?”

“Working.” She shrugged. “Here. Now.”

Her co-worker’s face darkened with a grimace. “It’s worth minimum wage.”

“Not really how I meant it…”

“How’d you mean it, then? How should you dress this up on your CV?”

“ _No_. I just meant…Well, in the grand scheme of things, will minimum wage for a summer _really_ make a difference? It’s expensive, school.”

It was a conversation they’d had before, and like before, John looked at her, resisted rolling his eyes, then softly shook his head and got back to work. Janine knew his opinion. It would make a difference to _him_. It made a big difference in _his_ life or he wouldn’t do it. And Janine could respect that—especially when John was surrounded by people who seemed to think school _and_ work were both for the birds. His sister, for one. And his best friend.

At least the friend seemed like the ambitious type. He was going places with or sans degree.

Still, knowing where John Watson stood did not help Janine Hawkins decide on her _own_ opinion. And she tended to think that being opinion-less was, frankly, a shite thing to be.

The electronic bell on the door gave a muted chime and she tucked the polishing cloth into her apron to return to the register. “Welcome to Perky’s—ah. Speak of the devil. Class out early, then?”

“It’s more a survey than a _class_. Highly intellectual. John?”

“No, it’s _Janine_ , actually. See? There. Jan-ine. Similar, though. Spelled a bit different. See it?”

“I’m coming, Sherlock.”

John put the blenders back in order after a cursory drying and popped his apron on a hook near the counter exit, signifying the start of his ten minute break.

Janine grinned. “You could order a drip, at least. Or a muffin.” She grinned a bit wider when she was _blatantly_ ignored, and turned her eyes to the door instead.

“No,” she heard John murmur, once the two of them had taken a table in the corner, “I don’t know why she said that, we weren’t talking about you…Yes, I promise.”

The bell chimed again, and continued to do so in a regular manner, and that more or less took her mind off things until she called John back from his _fifteen_ minute break (she was a wonderful boss, thanks).

“Is he going to be doing his schoolwork in here every day?”

“Sherlock doesn’t do schoolwork.”

“Fine, his _survey_ ing, then.”

“…Eh? No. What? No, he just…doesn’t do _work_. He thinks it’s boring.”

Janine cocked her head and glanced over her shoulder at the boy—the man, really, but he was so young in the face…She blinked. “So he’s just going to sit there until you’re off?”

“Unless something more interesting comes up. Right now he’s just sore because his mum threw out his latest experiment.”

“I can hear the both of you, and she had _no right_ —”

“It was a _biohazard_ , Sherlock, get over it!”

“He lives with his mum?”

“No. She was just visiting.”

“Which makes her treatment of _my_ personal experiments that much more egregious.”

“Sherlock, it’s been three days. Sulking around is fine at home but not while I’m working. You’ll scare off our—bloody _scant_ as it is—customers.”

She watched the exchange with interest, a dark brow arched high. By the end of things, Sherlock had swung his bag over his shoulder and stalked out, nose in the air. John had started to clean the blenders again, with more elbow grease than strictly necessary.

“…So, you share a flat?”

“Hm?”

“With your friend. You share a flat. I’m learning all _kinds_ of things about you today, doc.”

“Oh…Er. Yeah. He does most of the paying for it, honestly, but I have to do all the washing up, and it’s horrid. That experiment we were talking about? Eyes. _Eyeballs_ , Janine. In my flat.”

“ _Human_ eyes?”

But the door chimed again, cutting the conversation short.

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

The café was closed Sundays, which was both good and bad. It was good because it gave Janine a break. A nice day to laze about in her pyjamas and eat kids’ cereal at noon and watch some recorded telly from over the week. It was bad—horrible—because it forced her to think about how _bare_ her social calendar was. School mates off on holiday, visiting family, visiting friends, visiting everyone but her, because she didn’t live anywhere special or exciting or beautiful. Even her flatmate was off in Wales. Fuckers.

She sighed, tapping the side of her bowl with a spoon that had been _basically_ clean when she’d picked it up.

It wasn’t their faults. No one had called her, but she hadn’t called them, either. Hadn’t texted. Hadn’t commented on anyone’s travel blog.

She wasn’t great at friends, was she?

She dropped the spoon with a clatter and tossed the bowl gently to the other side of the sofa.

Honestly, she knew she ought to have _one_ friend for the summer. _One_ person she could chat with about her day, or about that stupid yogurt advert she’d forgotten to fast-forward through.

Janine glanced at her phone, sitting idle on the cushion next to the cereal bowl.

She had John’s number. For work.

For work emergencies.

Wasn’t an emergency of her brain close enough? She was in danger of losing it, of it just leaking out of her ears. And then he’d have to get a new co-worker at Perky’s, and they might not even be attractive. There. It was a work emergency.

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

“Janine? It’s Sunday.”

“I know what day it is. Were you asleep, lazy sod?”

“You’re not even dressed, are you?”

“…Answer the question.”

“No, I was not asleep. _I’m_ dressed.”

John muttered, “Unlike _some_ people in this flat,” in a direction other than the mouthpiece of his mobile. Janine grinned.

“I always thought your friend’d be the shy type.”

“Shy? Sherlock Holmes? Sherlock Holmes is _not_ shy. He’s a—Sherlock, where are you _going?_ ”John paused.“…You can’t go out in a _sheet_. Are you wearing any pants?”

Her grin broke into a tiny chuckle.

“Well, tell _her_ to get her clothes back on, too. This is fucking ridiculous. No, not— _ugh_.”

What?

“John?”

“Hang on. Sherlock!”

There was no way. Not John Watson. John Watson, the grumpiest student of medicine in the history of medicine students did _not_ have a naked girl in his flat. With whom he was apparently annoyed.

Or…

Did _Sherlock_ have a naked girl in his flat?

That was interesting. Maybe he wasn’t shy, but she’d thought for sure he was…Well. She’d never been wrong before, but there was a first time for everything.

“Hello? Janine?”

“…Ah. Hey, doc. Having a party I wasn’t invited to?”

“Not even _remotely_ , and don’t call me that. What did you need?”

A friend. Someone to entertain her. Something to break up the monotony of a lazy Sunday.

“…Nothing.”

The other end of the line went quiet, but for a tiny _huff_ that she heard exit John’s nose. “Nothing?”

“Not anymore. Thanks! Really, thank you. See you at work? Bye!”

“Jan—”

She pulled the phone from her ear and tapped the call off, still amused by what she’d heard and, perhaps better, a little bit puzzled. It ought to keep her brain from melting at least until Monday morning, and then she could grill John Watson in person about his unfairly exciting home life. What was _that_ about?

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

“So, I was wrong about you.”

“It’s too early for this.”

John pulled his apron on over his head and tied it, and Janine spied a bit of a bruise on his knuckles.

“Did you punch something?”

He looked at her. It was too tired and long-suffering to really be a glare, but God, he was trying. She smiled back.

“Someone?”

“Too early. I’m going to get the pastries from the freezer.”

Janine nodded aimlessly as he left, then continued her quiet wipe down of the counters and tables and chairs. She’d done the floor Saturday, and like Hell was she doing it again until Tuesday, at least. Still. Who the Hell had _John Watson_ punched? He was such a softie. She’d put him as more the huffing and puffing and maybe _occasionally_ yelling kind of person.

Maybe it was a something, then. A wall, or some other poor, inanimate object.

John returned with a frosty metal tray, stacked with various sweets, and set it down on the sink so he could rub his hands together. Then he brought it the rest of the way to the case.

“Have you ever seen _In Bruges?_ ”

He blinked up at her and kept silent.

“It’s not _that_ early, you know.”

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

When Sherlock came in that afternoon, John was on the register. Janine was pulling espresso for a quad shot—a _quad_. Which she almost dropped once she saw the bruise on Sherlock’s face. She looked between them, stunned for all of a second, before a smirk crawled onto her lips and she slid the coffee over to the waiting businesswoman. “It _was_ a someone, then.”

John scowled. “What are you doing here?”

“Row with the flatmate. That’s pretty boring. And to think, yesterday you had me star-struck, doc.”

Sherlock spared her a glance, which was more than he usually did, and rolled his eyes. “He’s not talking to me.”

“Oh?” Janine grinned as she gave the espresso machine a loving rub-down.

“He was talking to _me_.”

Her hands stilled. The woman suddenly behind John’s flatmate looked as though she’d stepped off a red carpet somewhere—the rouge on her lips must have been an exact match. Tight black dress, ridiculously wide, classy neckline, earrings… _Diamond_ earrings? Big ones. Janine stood up straighter, wary, and slowly cocked her head. A few gears turned. “… _Oh_. Are you the naked lass, then?”

“Janine—”

“The one from your flat yesterday? When I called.”

John seemed to deflate, bracing himself on the counter and taking a deep breath before he fished a key out of his pocket, locked the register, and strode into the backroom. The woman just smiled.

Although, upon closer inspection…she was really more a girl. Their age. Just…dressed up. Far too dressed up for a Monday afternoon at a small-chain café.

“If he’s going on break he should be on this side of the counter, shouldn’t he?”

Janine’s gaze flickered to Sherlock, who was looking petulant, then back to the starlet who’d followed him in. “He’s not on break, he didn’t hang up his apron.”

“Well, what is he doing?”

“…No idea. So, do I get an introduction?”

Sherlock snorted quietly and stepped to the side. Janine caught sight of the short line that had formed behind them but _really_ couldn’t bring herself to care. Not when John’s friends were so interesting and the regulars behind them ordered such shite-boring drinks.

“Janine Hawkins. This,” he began, looking toward the back with a tone as bored as he could possibly manage, “is Irene Adler. She has a craving for attention, perhaps you could _sate_ it. But first, fetch John.”

“I’m not fetching anything, I need to man the till. _You_ get him.”

Two sets of eerie blue eyes locked onto her for a moment, before one blinked and swept to the side, through the swinging half-door, and into the back. The second stayed right on target, and its owner swept forward with swinging hips, and leaned back once she was touching the counter. There was a clacking sound that followed her. She must have been wearing heels. “I can’t imagine non-employees are allowed back there.”

“Probably not. Are you actually going to order something…? _Miss Adler?_ ”

Her teeth were really white. And she was so _pale_. Janine pursed her lips, waited, then smiled brightly and looked over the woman’s stupidly-elegant shoulder. “I can get the next person. What’ll you have?”

Adler merely floated to the side. To the pastry cabinet, and toward the counter entrance. Janine flashed a look that she hoped would prevent any funny business. Letting a flatmate behind the scenes was one thing. Someone with a penchant for stripping to the buff in said flatmate’s presence another. But the woman just gave a subtle shrug and perused the little cake squares and scones and the chalkboard menu over Janine’s head.

Once the line was clear, she click-clacked back in front of the register. Janine was cleaning. She didn’t look up.

“I’m ready to order now.”

She looked up.

“…Well?”

“…Right. Some…blended coffee, or…fancy hot chocolate? We don’t use real whipped cream, just so you know.”

“You think you’re good at reading people.”

“I think you’re not used to ordering your own coffee.”

The woman smirked and leaned closer. “I really think you ought to fetch those lovebirds from the cold storage.”

“Hah.”

But Adler stayed right where she was. She raised a sculpted brow, expectant. It wasn’t a joke. Or was it? It was…Who knew what it was. Janine shrugged. “Your order?”

“…Americano, please.”

“You know, you can have a sweet girly coffee if you want one. I was only teasing.”

“I’ll have the Americano, but thank you. And I really would go check on those two…”

“Why?” Janine set a paper cup down. “Jealous?” She smiled wide when Adler stood up straight, finally. It made for much better breathing room.

“Not at all. You might have gotten the wrong impression. I’m—”

“You need to work fewer hours, John. It’s entirely unnecessary. You.” Sherlock stopped short at the door and rocked forward when John hit his back. “What are you still doing here?”

“Sher—Ah. Janine, is everything all right?”

She looked between the three of them, rag in hand, and frowned. “Everything is…fine. Sort of. Bit confusing. But all right.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Sherlock.”

There was a clacking, the door chimed, and John cleared his throat as he shoved past Sherlock into the small work space.

“That girl was spreading rumours about you.”

“She doesn’t even know me. She barely knows Sherlock.”

“Mm. Is she in your class then?”

“Survey.”

“Is that a yes?”

“…Yes.”

Sherlock had left the counter (pushed by John Watson) and was re-shouldering his bag.

Janine made a thoughtful noise. “Doesn’t seem the school type. More a…what’s it called? A debutante?”

“She’s a nuisance. More clever than she looks, but not as clever as she thinks she is.”

Something about that made John snort. “No one’s ever as clever as they think they are. Not even you.”

The look of betrayed shock on Sherlock’s face let Janine know he disagreed…and made her re-think whether Adler’s “lovebirds” comment had been rumour after all. She grinned and moved back to the register, where her face fell into a frustrated frown.

“…She didn’t pay for that coffee.”

“Who? Irene?”

“ _No_ , the other gussied-up naked lass that was in your flat yesterday.”

“Okay, first of all, you’ve got no idea what happened, so stop saying that like you do. Second…the petty cash is empty.”

Janine’s shoulders dropped. “It was supposed to get replenished last week!”

“It didn’t.”

“…Well, I’m not paying for it. She’s _your_ special naked lady friend. You pay for it.”

“No.” John crossed his arms and Janine copied him, and both workers stared at each other until Sherlock sighed and shuffled around, eventually dropping a crumpled ten-pound note on the counter.

“There. Fixed. Can you come home now?”

“…She only got an Americano—”

“I still have two hours, Sherlock, you know that.”

The sigh echoed again, but instead of taking a seat at one of the free tables like Janine expected, the alleged-genius turned on his heel and left.

“So, about the tenner?”

“Ring up a pastry for me and keep whatever’s left. He’d never take it back.”

“And about the naked lass?”

“…It’s a long story.”

Janine grinned, turning fully to John and settling a hand on her hip. “We’ve got two whole hours.”

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

It _had_ been a long story, and honestly, Janine still didn’t understand most of it. Sherlock and Miss Adler had apparently been paired up for some project that Sherlock refused to do. Adler had gotten hold of his phone number and sent a plethora of texts, all unanswered, tried calling him and gotten nowhere, and had finally shown up at the flat. Janine wasn’t sure where the nudity came in on either side. Was Sherlock regularly nude on Sunday afternoons? In a sheet, anyway. She remembered he’d been wearing a sheet.

John had sounded exasperated but unsurprised. Did women regularly strip themselves in Sherlock Holmes’ presence? On the whole, hearing the story had raised more questions than it had answered.

And she was still upset about the coffee, even if it had earned her a few pounds.

The next time Irene Adler showed up, she was going to get that payment, damn it.

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

The next time Irene Adler showed up, she handed Janine the payment.

Or rather, she handed her a black card held between perfectly-manicured fingers and apologised for the quick escape.

“I didn’t want to find myself in the middle of another domestic,” she said.

Janine stared. Then she rung up an Americano and handed the card back. She would drink it on her break.

Adler smiled. She was in another expensive-looking dress, white instead of black, with a belt that had a shiny gold buckle.

A few seconds ticked past.

Janine tapped on the counter and glanced at the door with a long blink. When that didn’t accomplish anything, she showed her own pearly whites. “Were you looking for John? He’s just in the back.”

“No.”

“…Waiting on Sherlock?”

“No.”

“Wanting to order a miniature quiche?”

The woman made a face, bright red lips thinning out.

“Just trying to block up my line, then.”

In a smooth motion Adler drew herself to full height and glanced over her shoulder. It made her neck look a mile long. Janine looked forcefully away when it started to move back.

“What line is that, exactly?”

Janine ran her tongue over her toothy smile and shook her head. “Just a hypothetical one. Of course. Can I help you with _anything_ at all?” She only knew so many ways to inject a sub-textual “get the fuck out of my café,” and none of them seemed to be working. There ought to be a reason for that. Hopefully one that didn’t include being rich and privileged and used to parading around wherever _one_ wanted to go to do whatever _one_ wished to do with _one’s_ time. Or some similar crock.

“Janine Hawkins.”

“Good memory.”

“It’s a very pretty name, Janine.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re a very pretty woman.”

“Thank you.”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“…” Janine resisted the urge to step back. Her eyes might have widened a bit more, and her shoulders might have stiffened, but she stayed right where she was at the register. “You’ve just bought me one.”

“I bought myself one. From Monday.”

“Sherlock paid for it. You ought to thank him.”

“I’d really rather not.”

“…Yeah, I could see why.” Janine did step back then, but it was to make an Americano. She pulled the shot and added the water, and slid it over the counter in a mug. “You drink that one. You can buy me a chai latte and a madeleine.”

She’d hung up her apron as soon as John came back with the cups and straws from storage, and rather enjoyed the gob-smacked look he had as she sat down at Sherlock’s usual haunt, and Irene Adler slid her card across the counter to him.

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

“You are out of your depth.”

“Back of the line, sir. I’m afraid these lovely people were ahead of you.”

“Irene Adler does nothing but play cat and mouse with whatever catches her interest.”

“You’re actually concerned for me?”

“…What? Don’t be ridiculous. She’s not playing with _you_. She’s playing with me.”

“Hah. You know, John’s said you’re a bit full of yourself sometimes, but I really didn’t think—”

“She intends to have you quit, I imagine. Make John’s life harder.”

“So she’s playing with John, then.”

“ _No_. Don’t be short-sighted, either.”

“Uhm. About my frapp?”

“It’s coming, sorry! Sherlock, _back_ of the _line_.”

“Where’s John?”

“Ignoring you! Back of the line!”

Sherlock scoffed but took a step away. He didn’t make any move to queue, but at least he wasn’t invading her customers’ personal space like a bad cold. When Janine walked to the blenders to pour the drink that’d finished working, she made sure to give John Watson a kick in the arse.

She heard him muffle a curse as he hit his head on the sink’s pipes. “You’ll deal with him after.” It wasn’t a question.

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

Lunch rush survived, Janine grabbed a sandwich from the cabinet and hung her apron. She dragged Sherlock from the counter to a table and pointed for him to sit. After a glance in John’s direction (John was looking at the register like it might get up and run away), he did.

“All right.” Janine sat, too. “What did you mean, she’s playing around?”

“She wants revenge. She failed to acquire an extension from the professor and expects to receive a poor grade on that meaningless project.”

“On your project. The one assigned to both of you?”

“I don’t participate in assigned work. And certainly not assigned _group work_.”

“So she’s vengeful. About a grade in a summer class. Wait, are they even graded? Like as a whole?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“Right. So she’s playing with me, but she’s not playing with me, she’s playing with John. But she’s not playing with John, she’s playing with _you_.”

“Correct. She knows John is important to me.”

“Well, she certainly thinks he’s _important_ to you, yeah.” Janine grinned. Sherlock didn’t. She blinked and slowly turned her head to the counter. John was rubbing at some sort of invisible scuff.

Janine quietly cleared her throat and turned back to Sherlock. “So, you two are…” She couldn’t imagine the man across from her saying the word “boyfriend” in any manner but sarcastically. “Partner” seemed a bit old for them, though. And “significant other” was just…a mouthful. She shook her head, “…together?”

“We are soul mates.”

“…Oh.”

Sherlock nodded, and continued on as normal. “She knows that John is one of few things that matter to me in life, and one of _very_ few people. She thinks making him miserable will make me miserable, and she is right. She thinks that making you quit this job will make him miserable, and she _might_ be right. And she thinks that she can make you quit your job. Is she right?”

It was starting to become clear how John Watson felt when he said it was “too early.” But that could hardly be used as an excuse at half-three. Janine sat back in her chair and tried to look as graceful as she could look with simultaneously flabbergasted.

“Well?”

“I don’t…How could she make me quit? She’s not been in since yesterday. We only had a ten minute chat…And it was mostly about _you_.”

“She bought your coffee.”

“It was tea, actually. And a pastry. And she _asked_ to buy me a drink.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “A ‘drink’? She said a ‘drink,’ specifically?”

“…Yeah?”

“I see. Are you homosexual?”

“Sherlock!”

The famous sigh came back. “… _Sorry_. Do you ever experience sexual or romantic attraction toward women?”

“That is really not your business.”

“Irene Adler has made it _her_ business. She wasn’t asking to buy you _break food_ , she was asking you on what is colloquially referred-to as a ‘date.’”

“God knows what those are like.”

“Shut up, John. Perhaps she intends to break your heart. Women are prone to histrionics—”

“You’re one to talk.”

“ _Do_ shut up, John. As I said, prone to histrionics after ‘breaking-up.’ She might think you would isolate yourself. Take a leave of absence or quit out-right.”

“…You think this woman is trying to seduce me out of my Perky’s apron.”

“Yes.”

Janine let that sit between them until Sherlock got impatient and began to fidget, leaning forward in a way she supposed he thought was intimidating, or at least respect-inspiring.

Then she snorted. “I’ve never let myself be played and I’m not going to start now, male or female, rich or poor, hot or not, clever or _super_ idiotic. And if I were _going_ to quit this bloody job it would have happened the first week. I’m not a masochist. Unlike your _soul mate_ overthere.”

“Hey!”

“I’m seeing this through to my last cheque. For _myself_. Not to protect you.”

“I don’t need protecting—”

“Then why are we having this discussion? Hm? Because you’re not protecting _me_. We’ve already established that.”

“…Your bravery is admirable. Just be careful.”

Her frown deepened, but Janine didn’t say anything else. Sherlock slowly stood and paused by the counter on his way out. A few quiet words were exchanged, and John glanced at the door before he leaned over for a quick, chaste kiss.

“Oy, get a room!”

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

It was quiet for a few days. It was unbearably quiet on Sunday, at Janine’s flat. And all day she was half-expecting a naked woman to show up at her door. The neighbours would have been scandalised.

But no one showed up. And she didn’t want to risk calling John and have Sherlock intercept it; she’d been warned that could happen.

It wasn’t until Monday that anything even remotely exciting happened again. Irene Adler showed up in the café. She showed up before class.

And she showed up in her pyjamas.

Far from some silky negligée or a satin shirt and bottom combo, the woman was wearing an oversized cotton t-shirt with a common brand of lager and wide-legged, draw-string trousers with a loud geometric print. And _slippers_. Her hair was down, instead of tightly coiffed high—it was longer than Janine would have guessed. It was messy. She had no make-up on.

And she was still _fucking_ gorgeous, and that was hardly fair.

John didn’t recognise her until she spoke.

When she spoke he’d looked up, stepped back, stepped forward, glanced at Janine, and then…laughed, hopelessly. It was short and breathy, but it was still a laugh. John had shaken his head and said something about how early it was, and then moved to the pastry cabinet to start heating a quiche for the regular who’d just walked in with a beep. Janine took his place, because what on Earth else was she meant to do?

And that’s why she was staring down Irene Adler at six o’clock in the morning. And having an _awful_ lot of fun.

“Americano?”

“Mm. A normal drip today. Cream, not milk. And one sugar. For here.”

“Coming up…So. How are we feeling today? Vengeful?”

“…Pardon?”

“I’ll just take that as a ‘no.’”

Janine could feel Adler’s eyes on her as she worked. John had started on the order of the next person in line. They moved silently amidst the hissing of steamed milk and ticking of the toaster oven.

The oven gave a short ring just as she put down a mug for Irene Adler. “You know I can’t sit with you while you drink that?”

“I know. But thank you for the offer.”

“I wasn’t—…Never mind. Are you paying for that this time?”

“Of course.” And the black card came out. Of Adler’s shirt.

Janine’s hand paused where it had been mid-air, and she blinked for a moment between the card and its safe storage.

A smile grew slowly on the woman’s unpainted lips. She waved the card a little. “There’s a pocket on the inside. You can see it, if you’d like.”

“Er…No. Ta. Anything else for you?”

“A madeleine.”

It was rung up, she walked to the corner, sat, and…that was it. She didn’t stare at the counter, or at Janine, like Sherlock would often stare at John. She didn’t seem interested at all.

When the traffic got light, Janine caught John gently by the arm. “Your soul mate is a nutter.”

“…I know.”

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

Over the next two weeks, Irene Adler walked into Perky’s three more times. Once more in her PJs, once in a red-carpet ensemble, and once somewhere in-between—dark-wash denim and a well-fitted button-down shirt, with a gold necklace that _looked_ like costume jewellery in its extravagance but that Janine was absolutely certain was real.

She’d ordered an Americano in her dress, a drip in her PJs, and a chai latte in the jeans.

Janine had decided to be cheeky, and asked, “Am I supposed to be impressed?”

Instead of being punished, she’d been invited to a cocktail party. “And you and Sherlock too, of course, John.”

“Can you actually imagine Sherlock at a cocktail party?”

“No, but I’d love to see him drunk. _And_ you, for that matter, Mr Watson.”

“…No. Thank you, but no.”

“Janine?”

“Doubt it. Thanks, though.”

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

All three of them ended up at the cocktail party.

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

“I must be _literally_ unwell to let you talk me into this. Just…bonkers. John, you’re a doctor. Diagnose whatever mental illness I’ve caught.”

“That is not how mental illness works, show some respect. And slow up on the drinks… _That’s_ a medical order.”

“It’s only my fourth. We’ve been here for an _hour_. Does Irene Adler even live here? Did she come to her own bloody party, or is it just a big joke? …Is she playing the long con? Am I supposed to get upset and quit my job over this?”

“Yeah, I’ll just…take that. Can I…?” John removed the long-stemmed glass from her hand and poured it in the planter they were stood next to.

“…You know that plant’s not plastic.”

“I…—what? It’s not?”

“Mm-mn.”

“…Shit.”

He handed Janine back her glass, and she stared at it with a forlorn expression. It still smelled like loganberries. She sighed. “…How long’s it been since Sherlock ran off?”

“How long did you say we’ve been here?”

“N’hour.”

“That long.”

“Shit.”

“He’s _my_ soul mate.”

“No. _Shit_.” Translation: Adler, dead ahead.

“…Oh. Shit.”

“John? No. _No_ , John, don’t you—…you cock! Coward!” By the time she’d gotten to the end of the insults he was long gone, having sidled along the wall to the other end of the flat. Which was practically an entire _floor_ of a building. She couldn’t see him through the crowd of other people. But she _could_ see…Irene. Irene, who had made her way over quite slowly after the first sighting.

She looked…The normal amount of nice, that she normally looked. Her dress was a forest green, which paired surprisingly well with the magenta number Janine had chosen. Her jewellery was understated for once, a single tear-drop crystal on a silver chain—though it probably wasn’t silver, but platinum, or some material Janine didn’t know the name of. She sniffed into her empty glass and glanced down at the woman’s feet. Heels, like always.

Janine wondered if those slippers were in Irene Adler’s room. It was hard to imagine any t-shirts in the swanky flat, but for the fifty-pound designer ones on a few of the male guests.

She trailed her eyes up again, until she met the woman’s pale blue eyes, rimmed thick in black eyeliner—no. Black on the bottom. Silver on top. And thick mascara that seemed _perfectly_ applied, clump-free…Were they falsies? Janine was peering at them, leaning close, when a throat was cleared.

Irene’s. Adler’s. Irene Adler cleared her throat.

“…Sorry. I was just trying to decide if they were fake. That’s all. Are they fake?”

“Well, I’ve never been asked _that_ before.”

Janine took in the amused smirk on the woman’s red lips ( _always_ bright red) and gave a little laugh when she finally got the joke. Breasts. Ridiculous. God, why were breasts so _funny?_

“They’re not…but, if you _really_ want to hear my secret,” the red lips were close, then skirted out of Janine’s peripheral vision to speak by her ear, “the lashes are.”

There was a hand on her chest—her collar, really, it was nothing improper. The neckline of her dress was high enough to make a barrier. It was _quite_ proper. Slender fingers ghosted around the hollow of her throat. It was…

“Janine.”

It was _Sherlock_. For fuck’s sake. She blinked back to attention so she could glare at the man. It was bleary, but it was a glare. Irene’s hand had disappeared. Janine wasn’t sure if it had actually been on her or not, anymore. She certainly didn’t feel any lingering warmth.

So, it was Sherlock.

“ _What_ is it?”

Irene had stepped back, looking amused. Sherlock had put himself right into the space Irene had previously located.

“We’re leaving. John and I. He said you’re drunk and that you should be brought along.”

“He said I should be _brought along_.”

“Yes.”

“You’re drunk?”

“John’s a doctor. S’pose I _must_ be if he says so. Wanker.”

“Of course she’s _drunk_. What did you expect when you lured her to a cocktail party where _ghost-like_ servers are handing out 100-proof drinks to anyone with an empty hand as though they’re bottles of _Perrier?_ ”

“Do you _have_ Perrier? If I’m drunk I ought to hydrate.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Fine, no one listen to me. It’s hardly as though I’m _ever_ right.”

“Sherlock? Ah! Janine. Did Sherlock say? We’re going to go… _Hi_. Irene. Hello. We were just leaving.”

They stood in a cross shape, Janine facing Sherlock, Sherlock facing John, John facing Irene, Irene facing Janine. For a moment, nothing was said.

Then a lot of things were said. Most of which jumbled up around the others and made everything unintelligible. But there was one thing Janine heard, that she was _certain_ she’d heard. One of the words to come from Irene Adler’s mouth had been, “sorry.”

She had said, “I’m sorry.”

And then she had stared, mouth slightly open, hands cupping the glass she’d taken from Janine’s. When had she taken it?

More words were said, floating between them, but none of them had come from Irene’s mouth, and none of them made any sense. Janine nodded, very slightly.

“Let’s go. It’s already going to be _Hell_ getting a cab this time of night, in this part of the city.”

Janine went. She went partially because she wanted to, and partially because she didn’t. And partially because she had no idea what _else_ she’d do, if she didn’t, because she certainly didn’t have the money for a cab home alone and she wasn’t going to ask Irene Adler for a loan.

Near the door she glanced over her shoulder, but she didn’t see anyone. Not a single person.

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

The next day Janine’s head was aching, and John had turned on the machines and pulled them both double-shot Americanos before he did anything else. She was still better at espresso than him, but…she could hardly complain, especially when he popped open the register (too loud) and slammed in the money to pay for them ( _way_ too loud).

“What were we thinking?”

“We weren’t. I _definitely_ wasn’t. Why on Earth would _I_ listen to Sherlock Holmes? I don’t even get to fuck him. That was a _stupid_ idea. What was he even trying to learn?”

“Don’t ask…”

Janine didn’t ask. She waited. Before she’d reached “ten,” John’s frustrated voice was ringing out again.

“He wasn’t _learning_ anything. He was making _connections_. He’s got this idea in his head to be a…a _consulting detective?_ Like a PI but for…for actual governments, and police services. Says they’re more likely to take him seriously if he’s done a few private cases. And he thinks it’s stupid and I _know_ he didn’t make any connections at that bloody party, he just pissed people off and assured he’d get _no_ fucking cases from _any_ of them, and…Ugh.”

“…Ugh?”

“I hate it sometimes. I really hate how fucking brilliant he is.”

“…Eh?”

“He doesn’t…Ugh! He doesn’t _want_ cases from any of those people! He…That mad bastard.”

The look that melted onto John’s face was entirely too fond for Janine’s taste, considering how close to spitting he’d been a moment prior, but…there it was.

“…He’s trying to get his name out without _actually_ attracting business.”

“Seems a bit backwards.”

“Does he strike you as the person who does _anything_ forwards?”

Janine sipped her coffee and idly wiped down the counter. “Not really, no. What does that say about you?”

John grinned. “Fuck off. I’m in charge today, you know.”

“And yet you’re the one who made the coffee. The corporate ladder doesn’t suit you, Watson. Medicine was a good choice.”

He shook his head and nicked a piece of half-thawed cake from the cabinet. “…So, you all right? I know you didn’t have a great time.”

“It wasn’t bad. More fun than I’ve had on any other Sunday since I got this job. And the drinks were free.”

“Everyone there was so…”

“Posh?”

“ _Fake_. Maybe it’s just because Sherlock’s so brutally honest, but…the few times I tried talking to anyone, I didn’t believe a word they said. About anything. It all just sounded so manufactured. Like they were only saying it to be pleasant.”

“People like being pleasant. Or they like it when other people are.”

“Do you?”

“…Hm.”

“So at least we’re both odd.”

“Oh, don’t you go lumping me in with _you_.”

“Fine, fine. I’m odd, and you’re…whatever you want to be. All on your own.”

“Damned right I am.”

They finished their morning snack and continued with morning prep. When Sherlock came in that afternoon, moaning something about e-mails, Janine would admit to watching the door behind him. Just in case.

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

Irene Adler didn’t come in again, that Janine saw. And she _would_ have seen. She didn’t ask about her, though. More or less refused to.

Until the day John showed up with Sherlock in tow. Which she could only assume meant the class was over.

“He’s not actually going to stay here all day, is he?”

“God, no. He said he had something to tell you, though, and far be it from anyone that he send you a text or an e-mail or a bloody _telegram_ like a normal person when he can choose to piss off everyone on the tube instead. I take that train _every day_ , Sherlock. I see some of those people regularly!”

“Only for another month or two.”

“…Just tell her.”

“I gave Irene Adler your phone number.”

“You…what?”

“I’m not going to repeat myself. She asked for it. I gave it to her.”

“How did _you_ get it?” Janine looked at John as she asked, and he just shook his head with the fatigue of someone three centuries older than he was.

“…Wait, she asked for it? Why would she ask _you_ and not me?”

“Perhaps it’s because you weren’t in the laboratory at the time.”

“Or she’s _shy_.”

“Irene Adler is _not_ ‘shy.’”

“Oy. All right. How about this. If you hate her so much, why’d you do her a favour? Or is this about punishing _me_ now?”

Sherlock sniffed, squeezing John’s hand. They’d been clasped together at the ends of their arms since they’d walked in, and Janine hadn’t even noticed. John sighed. He elbowed Sherlock as if to say, ‘yes, you _do_ have to answer.’

“I don’t hate her. What gave you that idea?”

Suppressing a scoff, Janine shrugged her shoulders. “Never mind it. The second part?”

“I’m not punishing anyone. I was merely contributing to the global exchange of information. It’s how our modern world works, Miss Hawkins.”

“Shove it.”

“You’re upset, then? Specifically that I gave Irene Adler your phone number?”

“…”

Janine _wasn’t_ particularly upset. That was the upsetting thing. Annoyed, maybe, and a bit surprised, but not _upset_. She couldn’t decide whether she wanted to be called or not. She even couldn’t decide if, had Irene asked _her_ for the number, she actually would have given it over.

Which made it sound, in her head, like she ought to be upset.

“Are you—”

“Sherlock.”

“Well, I’m not going to apologise if she’s not upset. It would be pointless.”

“Might be nice practice.”

“ _John_.”

“I’m not upset. It’s…all right. Mostly. You’re still a bit of a prick, though…And you owe me.”

“What could I possibly owe you? Are you going to give _my_ phone number to someone?”

It had come out as a quip, but Sherlock’s face drew paled some (impressive, considering his skin tone) as Janine slowly smirked and rapped her fingers on the counter.

“Who’s that lovely girl that’s got her eye on you? The one with the braid? Makes the dark jokes all the time and then goes mum?”

“Janine…”

“No, no. What’s her name, John?”

Sherlock regained his constitution and shook off whatever cold bug had crawled down his back. “Her name is Molly Hooper, and that retribution would be pointless. Meek thing. She’d never make use of it. She wouldn’t, even if she were unaware of the status of my relationship with John.”

“Oh, but she’s aware, is she?”

John Watson suddenly flushed bright red, and turned to steer Sherlock out of the café. “Right, that’s enough. We’ve got work, Sherlock. Important work. If I get fired now I’ll blame _you_ , and I’ll be insufferable all the rest of the summer.”

“Wait, there’s a story here, isn’t there? A good one.”

“No!” “A small one.”

“I’d forgive you if you told me, Sherlock.”

“You’re not even upset. There’s nothing to forgive.”

Janine shook her head at the injustice of it and rung up a drink for herself.

She kept her mobile on, silenced, in her apron pocket.

It buzzed once, with a text message and a picture from her friend in Wales. She’d nearly scalded her hand, and Wales was _not_ worth a burnt hand.

Or the embarrassment that came with scrambling for the phone in the first place.

She wasn’t even _interested_. Not really.

She was just…curious.

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

“So, she really hasn’t called yet?”

“No. Oy, Sherl. What about giving me _her_ number?”

“I don’t know her number. Why would I know her number?”

“…Wh—I thought you two were paired up on something. Didn’t she…send you a bunch of texts? Call you?”

“Mm. Deleted them.”

“And you don’t _possibly_ remember her number?”

“Deleted it.”

“You’re useless. Why are you here?”

“John.”

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

Sundays had become even more frustrating. Then were three times as boring when Janine thought about how boring they might _not_ have been. It wasn’t as though she was expected a date, or even a particularly close friendship. She just wanted to know what had _Irene Adler_ showing…interest. Which was not mutual.

What could they possibly have in common?

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

Janine decided that Adler was playing hard to get, and, as before, she refused to be played with.

She endeavoured to forget the woman even _had_ her number. What good would it do dwelling on it?

And she wasn’t going to quit her job. She only had three shifts left.

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

No one exciting came in on her last day.

She really didn’t know why she’d been expecting someone to.

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

It was bullshit, honestly. It was total bullshit. It was driving her up the walls, and it was _bullshit_. And her roommate was back from her holiday. And she was complaining that there’d been milk spilled on the sofa.

God forbid anyone ever upturn their cereal bowl on the sofa trying to answer a call from an unknown number.

It wasn’t a crime.

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

By the time school started again, she was really just angry. Frustrated and angry. But not hurt. Definitely not hurt. Being hurt would mean she’d been invested, somehow, and she _really_ hadn’t been. It had been a game, really. It had been a little something that kept her interest for part of the summer. A puzzle left unresolved.

It felt like she’d lost the last piece and couldn’t find it anywhere. Like she’d torn through her whole flat and come up empty-handed.

It was that kind of anger and that kind of frustration. Nothing more.

And she’d bought the silk dress and gold necklace because she wanted to look professional when she interviewed for a _real_ job. Nothing more.

A real job.

That was what she needed. Something to fill up the tedious downtime between school and her _still_ bare social calendar.

Tedious? God, she was starting to sound like Sherlock Holmes.

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

It was a gorgeous little place. She would have preferred secretary work, in an actual office, to being someone’s PA, but the ad was intriguing and the pay was rather good. And it seemed like there were no other candidates. Janine had put on her dress, her necklace, her favourite pair of pumps, and shouldered a new handbag. To look professional. She’d even gotten a new phone, a clever one. One that Sherlock didn’t have the number to (she assumed—wrongly; he’d seen it on John’s phone and committed it to memory).

Things were looking up.

And then they were looking very, _very_ down.

Because there was no way that Irene Adler was looking to get a job as a PA. She was the kind to _have_ a PA, not be one.

She was the type to…

“Oh, Christ.”

“…Well, that’s not really the sort of language someone should use in a job interview, is it?”

Janine stood and frowned, deeply, unabashedly. “Probably not. _Fucking sorry_.”

“I don’t mind. Would you come in?”

“Are you joking?”

The woman’s mouth gave a little twitch. It was red, the same colour that Janine would swear had been burned into her bloody retinas over the last three months, but it looked small, somehow.

“I’m not. Should I be?”

“Yeah. Yes. _Yes_ , you should be. God, what is _wrong_ with you? Did you set this up?”

“…Do you think I’d do that?”

“ _Did_ you do that?”

Adler said nothing, but her mouth twitched again, pursed, all but disappeared. Janine’s mouth fell open. She forced it shut and turned on her heel.

“You don’t understand.”

Janine stopped. “No, I _don’t_ understand. And what makes you think I want to?”

“I know you’re curious.”

“Not about _this_. This is fucking insane. And, yeah, sure, I’m not the _sanest_ myself, I like a bit of excitement, but we’re not in a _Bond_ film, you know.

“I did _not_ set this up.”

“…Really?”

“I swear. I swear I didn’t.” Her arms were crossed weakly over her stomach, sliding over the fabric on her hip. It was another beautiful dress. Of course it was. White again, crisp, with a subtle, embossed floral pattern. It was so _innocent_.

And what business did that have suiting her? Janine really wanted to know that.

She sniffed. “You swear to what?”

“…Excuse me?”

“You swear. What’s that good for, hm? Swear to something. On something. Is your mother dead?”

“I…swear to God?”

“Do you believe in God?”

“That’s not an appropriate question for a job interview. Not from either side.”

“Right. Well. Good-bye.”

“ _Wait_.”

Janine stopped and turned again, expectant. She blinked at the blotchy red colour that marred the woman’s skin. Irene Adler could _blush?_ That changed a few things.

“…You all right?”

“…I…I am not used to… _making requests_.”

“You requested Sherlock Holmes give you my number. You never used it.”

“…What? You never picked up.”

“… _What?_ ”

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

“It isn’t cute, it’s stupid. It’s _embarrassing_.”

“That either of us trusted Sherlock Holmes? Yeah. Mortifying. You really thought I wouldn’t pick up?”

“…There wasn’t a lot of evidence to the contrary. And you _were_ drunk, the last time I saw you.”

“Whose fault is that?”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“You could have come seen me again. Then it wouldn’t have been the last time. Or do you think I’d go sheets to the wind at work? There’s not a _drop_ of alcohol in that café. John and I checked. First week, we checked.”

“…Ha. Right.”

“Hm.” Janine smiled and rolled the water around in her glass. The house had looked so chic from the street, but once she was sat in it, on one of its pristine white sofas, it didn’t seem nearly so intimidating. The fact that Irene had let her hair down helped a bit. “…So you actually need a PA, then?”

“In a sense.”

“Well, count me out.”

“You say that like I’d hire you.”

“Of course you’d hire me. You think I’m cute.”

Irene paused with her own glass halfway to her mouth, she lowered it, trying on a small smile. “And who told you that?”

“You _did_ try to touch my breasts.”

The smile sharply faded. “I—”

“ _Relax_. I…didn’t mind. That much.”

“You were drunk.”

“I remember it, don’t I?”

“I was…I didn’t want to look eager. That’s why I waited. Is _that_ cute, or is it stupid?”

“…Definitely stupid. I only came to see you, you know.”

“There were a few interesting people there.”

“Name three.”

“…Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and…you?”

“I can’t believe you actually went there. You’re just this…big, secret, _giant_ dork, aren’t you?”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“Oh, I’ll be telling _everyone_.”

Irene smiled, and it was Janine’s turn to purse her lips. A comedy of fucking errors. No big surprise, was it? She liked comedies. She could get used to the errors.

So…why not?

Janine put her drink down on the low table between them and gave her hair a fluff. She waited for Irene to set hers down, too, and signal that she was listening.

She took a deep breath.

“Let’s have dinner.”

 


End file.
